


Can't Unring This Bell

by horchatita394, weathervaanes, wishingonalightningbolt



Series: Baby Daddy [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Dad Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 20:56:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4681214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horchatita394/pseuds/horchatita394, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weathervaanes/pseuds/weathervaanes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishingonalightningbolt/pseuds/wishingonalightningbolt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott drops the two boxes under his arms and swings right into a soft sing-song voice as he approaches the baby.</p>
<p>“There you go.  There's a comfy baby. Whose comfy baby are you?” Scott looks up at both Liam and Stiles and bobs his head slightly. “No seriously, whose is it?”</p>
<p>-0-</p>
<p>Stiles gets a girl pregnant. A year later, he gets a surprise visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Unring This Bell

**Author's Note:**

> This is loosely based off the TV show Baby Daddy. It follows basic character arc/structure, especially in the second part (to be posted), but ultimately they're not that similar. If you're curious as to character association, I'll leave character likenesses in the end notes, but having seen the show or even knowing what it's about lends nothing to the reading of this fic.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

When Scott moves down to San Francisco, Stiles is pretty sure it’s going to be the greatest day of his life. He already lives with Liam, who does most of the chores and cooks dinner almost every night, but they have a third bedroom with no one to fill it, and so when Scott gets a job in the city, Stiles rejoices for hours on end.

There’s a clinic for pets that belong to low-income families where their animals can get care for low costs, and Scott has been wanting to join up ever since he heard about it. It’s only made better by the fact that, to offset cost from the patients, the clinic has a reality TV show. And the producers want Scott to be featured. _Heavily._ Kira, having a degree in physical education and a minor in history, has a job at a local gym, teaching martial arts skills. Liam has an internship with a video game company. And Stiles is an intern at a literary magazine that pays him dirt, so he bartends five afternoons a week at a fancy restaurant. Altogether, they make a barely functioning group of twenty-somethings in a large city with barely any resources leftover, but Stiles wouldn’t have it any other way.

Of course, the day that Scott moves in is also the day that Stiles’ life changes in a whole different way.

“I'm not leaving her.” That's the first thing the girl says as she shoves her way into the apartment, one arm loaded with a green bag and the other with a squirming little baby.

“Um…” Stiles stares at her as she begins to settle the bag and all sorts of baby things on his kitchen table. Stiles knows the girl's name is Malia and that they hooked up over a year ago and that she's holding a baby.

“I am not leaving her, okay? I don't want you talking shit saying I abandoned her—do you get me?”

“I, well—what?”

“Listen,” she says as she settles the baby on her hip. “I'm a shit mom. I am a shit mom because I didn't have a mom, and I had a piece of shit dad, and that's not her fault. Now I know you're like—a disaster, but you have a family. A family you’re close with as opposed to my dysfunctional rollercoaster. So you're going to give her your family and I am going to go find mine. And you are not going to tell anyone that I dumped her or that I'm never coming back because I am, but I am not coming back until I can be a good mom. Okay?”

“What are you even talking about?”

Malia maybe growls softly, definitely blows hair out of her face as she bounces the baby on her hip. “This is Py, short for Pyla.” She says this as she takes the baby and very simply thrusts her at Stiles. “She's yours. You can check, but needles make her cry for five solid hours.”

Stiles blinks at the child being held out towards him, feet dangling as Malia holds her under her arms. She has a big brown eyes and a little mole on the left cheek. Her hair, barely there, looks soft and dark. She smiles at him, goofily.

Again, Stiles says, “What?”

Malia takes another step forward, still holding out the baby, until Stiles has no choice but to grab her, cradle her against his chest. Then Malia’s hands are gone, and the baby—Pyla—gurgles as Stiles readjusts her in his arms.

“Okay,” Malia says, picking up her purse from the couch. “Good talk. I’ll be back soon—bye, Stiles.”

“Wait!” Stiles hollers, starting to follow her, but she only slams the door behind herself, and Stiles is left standing there, staring at the closed door, entirely unsure what to do.

Three seconds later, Liam comes out from his bedroom, running a hand through his hair. “Dude, what’s with all the slamming? It’s a Saturday morning.”

Stiles turns towards him, baby still babbling in his arms, grabbing at his shirt like she's trying to climb him.

Liam blinks very rapidly and points like he's discovered the new world. “It's a… It's a…oh, shit, a—person puppy!”

“It's a baby,” Stiles hisses at him. “It's a freaking baby.”

“Did you get drunk and steal someone's baby? What the hell, Stiles?”

“No!” he spits. “Of course I didn’t steal a baby!” He groans, looking down at the kid. “She’s mine.”

Liam is quiet. “Yours?”

“Mine,” he repeats, “as in I got a girl pregnant and she dropped the baby off and disappeared.”

“Um.”

Stiles nods. “Agreed.”

There’s a car seat—it’s a soft, mint green with matching blankets—and a diaper bag, as well as a bag of some toys and clothes. There isn’t a lot, though, which means Stiles is going to have to go shopping. As soon as he calls Malia and tells her to get her butt back over here.

He sets Pyla down in the car seat as he goes through his contacts, only to discover that he doesn’t have her number. Also, he can hear Scott in the hallway, dragging his stuff from the elevator. Because that’s the kind of day it is.

Scott, of course, doesn't have a normal reaction to the situation when he walks in the door. That's because his brother isn't a normal person. He's more like a concentrated flesh bag of joy.

“Oh my God, baby! Why is she sitting like that? Her neck is still too new—what is wrong with the doofuses, huh?”

Scott drops the two boxes under his arms and swings right into a soft sing-song voice as he approaches the baby.

“There you go. There's a comfy baby. Whose comfy baby are you?” Scott looks up at both Liam and Stiles and bobs his head slightly. “No seriously, whose is it?”

Stiles licks his lips. “Yeah, funny story.”

He tells it while they move in all of Scott’s stuff from his car. There’s not a lot, to be fair, so the conversation doesn’t last long. Especially when Scott stares at him over the top of his sedan and says, “You cannot actually think you’re going to keep this baby.”

Stiles snorts, outwardly defensive, but there’s a little bit of hesitation in him. There’s—nervousness, and excitement, and mostly fear.

“Okay,” Scott says, once they’re upstairs again. “We need a game plan.”

Liam is holding Pyla with a twisted frown. “Yeah, that might be a good idea, considering this kid’s gonna need a new diaper before this one explodes.”

Scott changes her because apparently that's a skill he has and everything he needs is in the diaper bag. Stiles takes those few minutes to think himself into a panic.

“We should call your dad,” Liam says, both hands clutching at his hair. “He'll know what to do huh?”

“I have a better idea,” Scott says. He gives Stiles a look, a look that says, _Don’t disagree with me, because you know I’m right._ “You remember Derek Hale? From high school?”

Stiles smirks. “Sure, Four Eyes Hale, I remember.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “He just moved to the city last month. He’s a pediatric nurse and he’s going to school to become a pediatrician. He would definitely know how to help us with baby stuff.”

“Fine,” Stiles says, rifling around the bag for bottles and formula because the kid is looking fussy and besides putting her down for a nap, he’s pretty sure the only other thing she could want is food. “I didn’t know you were still in contact with Four Eyes.”

“His name is _Derek_ ,” Scott scolds, “and yeah, we were close in high school. And just because you suddenly became good at lacrosse and dated Lydia Martin for two seconds doesn’t mean you’re above your awkward high school days too, Stiles.”

“That's exactly what it means,” he says as he squints at formula instructions.

Scott takes Pyla and cuddles her while Stiles tries to figure out the bottle.   “I mean I'm not saying we don't tell Dad,” Scott says as he rocks her. “I'm saying you can't dump her on him.”

“Dude,” Stiles sighs, “I don’t even know what I’m doing, okay? Honestly, I’m gonna find Malia, I’m gonna get her to admit she’s not ready for this kid, and we’re both gonna sign adoption papers.” He shrugs. “Simple as that.”

* * *

When the doorbell rings, Stiles is sitting on the couch. Pyla is in her car seat, asleep, and all three men of the household look at her when the noise echoes through the apartment. Thankfully, she stays conked out, and Stiles tilts his head towards the ceiling while Scott gets up to answer the door.

Stiles remembers Derek Hale from high school. He was skinny, pimply, nerdy, and overall unimpressive. He was the captain of the math team, and he played in the school orchestra. He and Scott used to hang out when Stiles was doing lacrosse stuff, but other than that, Stiles didn’t really know the guy. They were friends, lived down the block from each other, but weren’t exactly having sleepovers or anything.

He is totally confident, though, that he knows what Derek Hale looks like. So when Scott opens the door and a six foot supermodel walks through the door, Stiles’ jaw hits the floor. His shoulders look like a goddamn landing strip, the short sleeves of his scrub top gripping his biceps. His hair is perfectly styled and his face is decidedly zit-free and dusted with a five o’clock shadow of dark stubble. He probably has a six-pack and, Stiles would bet, thigh muscles that would make any male-inclined individual weep.

“Four Eyes?” he can’t help but ask, mouth drying up. “Four Eyes Hale?”

The man glares at him with such intensity he's not sure why he isn't dropping dead. “I don't need this,” the man says, turning to Scott.

“Ignore him,” Scott says as he ushers him inside. “We've got a baby and we don't know what to do with her. But she's really cute.”

Stiles closes his mouth and keeps it that way, decides that his desire to make fun of Derek for his transformation is less important than the health and wellbeing of a child, so he sits by quietly while Derek examines her, talks to her.

He writes down a list while he talks, something that Stiles can’t quite see.

“I’m not surprised that my life now includes having heard the words _unplanned_ , _baby_ , and _Stiles Stilinski_ in the same sentence,” Derek says to his daughter, smiling softly. “If anything, I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Hey,” Stiles starts to say, and Derek shoots him a cold look over his shoulder.

“Genes aside,” Derek continues, “you are absolutely adorable. And perfectly healthy.” He stands, hands the list to Stiles. It’s groceries, necessities, instructions, and local stores where he can get everything he needs. Stiles almost feels like hugging him. “How old is she?” he asks.

Stiles jerks his head up. “Um. That’s a good question. How long ago was—”

“You went out with her in July,” Liam supplies helpfully. “I remember because you took her to the Fourth of July Giants game.”

Stiles snaps his fingers. “Exactly. And it’s August now, and those things take, like, nine months to cook, so—”

“Three months,” Derek says with a nod. “Good. Get her a stroller. Baby soap. It’s all on the list. She needs to be on formula for at least another month before she can start having the jarred baby food.” Derek holds Pyla close, swaying slightly from one side to the other as he eyes Stiles warily. He turns to Scott. “Maybe I can talk to Melissa,” he suggests.

“No,” Scott shakes his head, but just one look at Stiles has him shaking his head more vigorously. “Stiles, we're not dumping her on Mom and Dad!”

“No dump,” Derek says as he holds the baby a little closer. “I just think it would be better if she had competent caretakers.”

“It’s a forty minute drive,” Scott protests. “Neither of them wants to make that drive, even if Dad is thinking about retiring— _and_ ,” he adds vehemently, “we can’t force him into retirement by telling him that you got a girl pregnant!”

“It wasn’t my suggestion!” Stiles argues. “Don’t yell at me! Besides, I—I actually agree with you. Maybe it would be a good idea to keep this a secret for a little while until we work something out.” He looks at the girl in Derek’s arms, frowns deeply. “I could find a daycare center probably, and one of you guys could take her until I get off my bartending shift—”

“You’re a bartender,” Derek says dryly. “Why am I not surprised.”

“Not all of us can be healthcare professionals, _Four Eyes_.”

“I wear contacts now,” Derek points out, and before she can say anything else, Pyla reaches up and starts grabbing at his beard. “We’re not in high school anymore, Stiles.” His voice is considerably softer, eyes locked on the baby.

Stiles huffs out a sigh. “Well shit. Shit, shit, shit—Derek’s right. We better call Mom.”

“How about we give it a week,” Liam suggests, hands still in his hair for some reason. “I mean, maybe the mom will come back? Maybe she had, like, a nervous breakdown and she'll be back in a few.”

“She looked pretty calm,” Stiles says, frowning slightly in the general direction of Derek and the baby.

“We _cannot_ put this on Mom,” Scott says forcefully. “I’m serious. A week, at minimum, before we call either one of them.”

“And what do you suggest we do until then?” Stiles has to ask.

Derek clears his throat. “My sister runs a daycare center. I’ll call her and make sure you guys can take her down there tomorrow morning.”

“Look,” Stiles says, more irritated than he probably should be. “That's great, and I appreciate it I do. But after lunch when that place closes, I still have a freaking baby that I was not prepared for.”

“What makes you think her mom had any more preparation than you did?” Derek says as he covers the baby's ears against words she can't understand.

He's hissy and judgmental and Stiles would really like to punch him right now. “Nine whole months, you think that's not enough?”

“No,” Derek says. It's crystal clear he thinks Stiles is a complete imbecile. “Not at all.”

“I can take her after lunch,” Liam says. “She can hang out at the office. I’m just gonna be at my desk all day anyway.”

“And I can take her at five,” Scott offers. “So you can do your shift.”

Stiles squirms, entirely unsure. There’s nothing he can do right now. It’s not like he could just leave the baby on the front steps of some orphanage even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t. In fact, his need to get the girl out of Derek’s arms is overpowering his intense discomfort with the fact that she’s fifty percent of him, so he grabs her, cradling her against his chest. She tips forward and starts drooling on his neck.

He grins. “Hey, this is like every date I’ve had for the past six months.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You need to go grocery shopping. I can stay with her while you—”

“Nuh uh, dude,” Stiles protests. “Scott and Liam will go grocery shopping. You are going to stay right here—with _me_ —and teach me how to do baby stuff. Like. Diapers. And baths. And bottles.”

Derek looks more than reluctant, but eventually he gives a very short nod and grabs the list to pass it to Scott.

“First of all,” he says the minute Scott and Liam are out the door, “don't hold her like that. She can move a lot at three months and if she starts flailing you could lose your grasp.”

Stiles frowns. “Fine,” he says harshly, moving to sit on the couch. Seated, he can sit her on his lap, look at her. She’s tiny, and soft, and squishy. She’s a baby, and Stiles has always loved babies. The only difference between her and any other adorable infant is that he’s signed some kind of biological contract to care for her.

He clears his throat. “Pyla Stilinski. Jeez, kid, you are not gonna have it easy.”

“What about the mom’s last name?” Derek asks.

Stiles blinks. “Huh. Funny story.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Why am I not surprised that you don’t know it?”

Stiles sticks his tongue out. “We were two consenting adults! Like you’ve never had a one-night stand.”

Derek glares as he grabs a little towel from the big green bag and mops up some dribble on Pyla's neck.

“Not irresponsible one-night stands. No.”

“You're so judgy,” Stiles snaps. “Were you like this in high school?”

“I guess you'll never know,” Derek answers calmly, eyes still on the baby.

* * *

Stiles should’ve known that he couldn’t keep it a secret for even a week. He should’ve known that, somehow, something would get out. He should’ve known, because only four (four long, hectic, agonizingly stressful) days later, Melissa Delgado-Stilinski is barging into his apartment at eight o’clock in the morning with bags of stuff.

“Where’s my granddaughter?” she demands, already heading back towards the hallway and into Stiles’ bedroom where the crib is.

“Technically,” Stiles says, the word drawn out and teasing even though he's exhausted and desperate and only wants to cry.

“I have sat at your bedside while you desirously talked about homicidal geckos, Stiles—technically nothing,” she says as she picks up Pyla. “This is my grandbaby.” She brushes her thumb across the girl’s cheek, face softening. “What’s her name?”

“Pyla,” Stiles says softly.

“Two months?”

“Three.”

Melissa smiles softly. “She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah. I know.” He leans against the doorway. “Did Dad come with you?”

“Are you kidding? Your father knows nothing about this.” She looks back up at him. “Derek told his sister, who told one of her friends, who happens to be a nurse on my staff. I’d like to say that I can’t believe you wouldn’t tell me about this, but it’s not actually surprising.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Stiles says. He says that and nothing else.

Melissa closes her eyes the way she does when she prays for patience and hitches Pyla up on her shoulder. “Scott.”

“Scott is of the opinion that I'm a grown up and that we can handle this,” Stiles sighs. “I'm not, though. And we can't. I can't. I don't know what I'm doing.”

“Oh, sweetie,” she says as she looks over the top of Pyla's head. “That's never going to go away.”

“You're very calm,” Stiles notes, too tired to panic.

“There's a reason I went straight for a baby,” she says, her tone a bit more severe. “Homicidal grandmothers are frowned upon.” She exits the bedroom, heading into the kitchen, where she grabs one of Pyla’s blankets and lays it down, Pyla on top of it. “Now,” she says as she grabs a fresh diaper, wipes, and baby powder, “why don’t you explain to me why you have a daughter, where her mother is, and why Kira’s shoes are by the front door when Scott told me they weren’t living together?”

Stiles smirks. “Mom.”

Melissa rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying, Kira’s family owns a condo across town. If they want to move in together, they should do so without two other men—and now an infant—in the same quarters.”

“Well they're not moving in together,” Stiles explains for probably the fourth time this month. “No, I don't know why. Probably Scott hasn't actually asked yet. He forgets details.”

Melissa looks up, one hand resting gently on the baby's tummy. “Okay, and this?”

Stiles sighs. “I wasn't irresponsible. I guess it just—was an accident. Anyway, I had no idea until Malia showed up with her and started ranting about finding her own family and how I had a family and—I don't even have her number.”

Melissa frowns and then turns back to Pyla. “Well you should have listened to her.”

“Uh, I did, but I was kind of in too much shock to ask for her digits…”

“About family,” Melissa says, her eyes doing that I'm-disappointed-you-don't-get-this thing they do. “She didn't leave her daughter to her technical father and two dudes in a badly kept apartment; she left her to her family. And you've been stressing yourself and the baby out trying to keep her a secret.”

“I'm not trying to keep her a secret,” Stiles says quickly, the words somehow sitting wrong with him. “I'm just in panic mode. You can't tell because I'm so tired I want to crawl in a grave, but I'm in a panic mode.”

She sighs. “I understand, sweetheart. Are you working this morning?”

“Until three at the office, and then until six at the restaurant.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for.” She pulls him down by his neck, kisses his forehead. “Go to work. Pyla is going to spend the day with her grandmother.”

Stiles blinks. “Um. What are you gonna tell Dad?”

“The truth,” Melissa says. “After I make him a bacon burger.”

“Oh, so you're just trying to give him the heart attack in one go then,” Stiles teases.

“Go to work,” she says, but she's really cooing at Pyla when she does it, so it loses its menacing effect.

He can't concentrate at work for half a second. Of course, much of what he does is mindless work—thus is the life of an intern—but the point still stands. What freaks him out more is that the thoughts aren't logical ones like _What the hell am I going to do?_ and _Can I even afford an entire human being?,_ but less obvious ones like _Does Melissa know which blanket Pyla likes to suck on?_ , and _Am I even supposed to let her suck on random pieces of fabric?_

The fact of the matter is that he can’t stop thinking about her all day. He can’t stop worrying, imagining that something is going to go wrong. And maybe it’s the stress from lack of sleep, or maybe it’s the fact that the ladies at the daycare center always smell so nice that he forgets to worry and so he’s overcompensating with fear now, but whatever the reason, he’s _losing it_.

By the time he heads out to the restaurant, he feels like he could come apart. All the same, he has to man up. So he ties his tie, scoots behind the bar, and is already taking orders when, two minutes after his shift has started, Derek Hale walks in the door. He spots Stiles quickly—Stiles can tell because of the way he rolls his eyes—and takes a seat at the bar, leaning his elbows on the polished wood.

“So, this is your job.”

Stiles smirks. “I’ll have you know I work thirty hours a week at a lit magazine for minimum wage, and then I come here and do this for ten hours a week, and then I go home and deal with a _baby_ , so how about you lighten up on your judgment there, Four Eyes?” He hooks his towel on the rack behind the bar, rolling his shoulders to let out the tension that Derek has put in them. “What are you doing here anyway? I’ve never seen you in here before.”

“Meeting a friend for drinks before dinner.”

“Must be nice,” Stiles mumbles without any bite in it.

Sometimes, in between worrying that Pyla is too tiny to remember how humans breathe and trying to not cut himself on memos or dropped wine glasses, he realizes that his life is basically over. He supposes if he's going to be a good feminist person about it, he should empathize with Malia. She probably felt the same way. She probably realized she'd never go out and party again, be able to throw herself into work for insane sleepless nights without any other worries, or ever get another guy or girl to look at her again. It makes sense, why she ran (even if she said she wasn't). She didn't even have parents to babysit for her.

Derek licks his lips. “Can I get whatever you have on tap and a Riesling, please?”

Stiles nods. “Sure thing. So. A friend,” he says as he grabs a chilled mug. “Or a girlfriend?”

“It’s a date,” Derek says, nodding. “She goes to school with me.”

“Convenient.”

Derek shrugs. “I guess so.”

“Wow, dude, could you possibly be less excited about this girl?”

“I just…haven’t dated in a while.”

Stiles sighs as he pours Derek's drink, more out of exhaustion than anything else. “Well there are more stressful things than hot girls. She's hot right?”

Derek nods.

“There you go,” he says as he sets his drinks down. “Enjoy it, then.” He leans over the bar, looks Derek in the eyes. “I’m sorry, by the way,” he says, and he is. “I was a dick when you came over to help with Py, and I shouldn’t have behaved the way I did. Drinks are on the house.” He knocks on the bar, hooks his thumb over to where there are more customers waiting to be served. “I gotta—”

“Yeah,” Derek says, nodding. “Thanks. I’ll—see you.”

When he gets home, so tired he's pretty sure his muscles are now only vague figments of his imagination. It's tempting to just crash face first onto the couch before the rays of sunshine hit him in the face. But he can't, he can't really do it without dragging himself all the way to Scott's room. Scott isn't there, but Liam is, with Py curled up over his chest. It's probably not safe. She should be in her crib, really. But her tiny body rises and falls with Liam's breathing, her own tiny breathing visible when he stares for long enough.

It should be fine, he thinks, to leave her there. She’s asleep. What could happen? Of course, as soon as he phrases that question in his mind, a million horrific possibilities come to mind. He doesn’t want to wake either of them, but he also is just _paranoid_. So he compromises by kicking off his shoes and collapsing next to Liam, face planted in his pillow. He’s asleep before he can count all the sheep lining up to hop the fence.

When he wakes up neither Liam nor Pyla is on the bed. In fact, it seems Liam isn't in the house at all, but Scott is, trying to convince Pyla that she's the cutest baby in the world.

“Oh, dude, I got the cutest picture of you two this morning. She like migrated from Liam's chest to your back.” He pulls out his phone to show him, grinning like a loon, and sure enough, the picture is pretty adorable. He’s on his stomach, arms tucked under his pillow, and Pyla is lying on his back, fingers in her mouth. Just looking at it makes Stiles’ stomach twist up. “Anyway, I changed her and Kira fed her, so I was just gonna drop her off at daycare on my way to work.”

Stiles nods, ducking down to kiss the top of Pyla’s head. She gurgles quietly and Scott scoops her up to get her into her car seat. In the eight second period that Stiles’ head is in the fridge, rummaging for something to eat, and the same eight second period that Scott is securing Pyla and heading towards the door, Stiles is calm, collected, and focusing on the short term events he has to handle for the day.

After those eight seconds, his event planning kind of gets thrown out of whack. Because waiting on the other side of the door is a woman with an envelope. Stiles would like to be able to say that that woman is Malia, that she’s returned to have a conversation, but instead it’s a thirty-something woman in a blazer and bright pink glasses, who says, “Are you Stiles Stilinski?” into Scott’s face.

Stiles ducks back from the fridge, staring. “That’s me.”

“Great!” the woman says, barging into the apartment. “My name is Alice, and I’m representing the new parents of your offspring!”

Stiles blinks. “Excuse me?”

Alice beams. “Malia Tate, the mother of that little girl right there,” Alice says, pointing at the car seat still in Scott’s hands, “has already signed away her rights as the mother and found the most _incredibly_ deserving parents to take Pyla. All you have to do,” she says, handing him the envelope, “is sign away your rights as the father, and we’re all good to go. So, read it, sign it, and stick it in the mail because I am late for court.” She drops her card on the counter and waves on her way out the door.

Stiles stares at the papers, and then over his shoulder at Pyla. It's exactly the kind of thing he would have prayed for if he'd had the time and the presence of mind to pray. People, presumably married, stable, adult, properly employed people want Pyla. She wouldn't have to grow up in a tiny frat house or be passed around from daycare to grandparents to really exhausted dad and uncles. She wouldn't have to spend probably her whole life waiting for her mom to come back. She'd have a mom and dad (or moms or dads) that would be there for her and give her a normal little kid life. It’s perfect. It’s excellent.

It sucks. It sucks because after Scott leaves to take Py to daycare, Stiles sits on the bus to work and thinks about how, one week after he’s been made aware of her existence, Pyla’s changed his whole life. He’s baby-proofed his apartment. He’s doing dishes. He does a lot more laundry than he used to. He’s even working harder at his jobs, trying to earn the money he’s making. Money he’s making for his daughter. For their family.

All the same, he can’t dismiss the idea entirely. Two parents, after all, would be better than one, and if Malia wants this, then maybe Stiles should too.

Still, that night he gets home after a half-shift and he finds Py in her crib, awake but quiet, her whole hand remarkably stuffed into her mouth, and he knows he can't. Even though it would probably be better and it would certainly be easier, he can't imagine not knowing what will happen to her. He can't sit here forever knowing that he has a kid out there that he might never ever see again. And he knows, of course he knows, that it's selfish—but he can't and he won't. He picks up Pyla from her crib and holds her close to his chest, aching tired muscles be damned.

“I know this place isn’t super fancy,” he whispers. “I'm not sure where you lived before so I don't know if it's an upgrade.” He sighs and presses his lips to the top of her head, smelling her weird, perfect baby smell. “If you had a good dad maybe he'd give you to those nice folks who want you and can probably afford to have you. But I… I want you. Even if I have to go back to eating Ramen once a day because that formula is whack expensive. So. I'm really sorry I'm not the best dad, Py. I hope you don't mind that I want to be your dad anyway.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ben - Stiles  
> Riley - Derek  
> Danny - Scott  
> Tucker - Liam


End file.
